


I Could Write a Book

by Librarianmum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:31:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3581256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Librarianmum/pseuds/Librarianmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason why Mycroft has to use his exercise equipment more often these days. And there's a reason why Molly walks the streets without fear these days. It's an odd friendship and even Sherlock can't fathom it, but it works for them...until Mycroft makes the fatal mistake of underestimating a certain Molly Hooper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "If they asked me, I could write a book..."

**Author's Note:**

> This is not intended to be taken massively seriously – it's just a little bit of fluffy goodness, in five chapters. The prompt was: Molly and Mycroft are great friends who meet frequently to overcome their loneliness and have a pact whereby he keeps her safe while she keeps him in baked goods.
> 
> The cakes described are taken from Mary Berry's website (the Brits among you may recognise her from The Great British Bake Off). They are all either her own recipe or favourites of hers. And lyrics in each chapter are from I Could Write a Book by Lorenz Hart and Richard Rodgers, for reasons that will become much clearer in chapter 2.

There's a reason why Mycroft has to use his exercise equipment more often these days.

And there's a reason why Molly walks the streets without fear these days.

As she strides down the road the CCTV cameras on the tall city buildings turn to follow her, but she pays them no more heed than she does the occasional stares from strangers. She's used to the surveillance by now; most of the time she forgets it's there. And she fears no sudden attack from one of Moriarty's nameless killers.

It wasn't always the case. For weeks after Sherlock's 'death', she hardly dared to venture out. It was true that Sherlock had told her not to worry, that she was in no danger, but he had done so in his usual, careless, slightly impatient, manner. She wasn't entirely convinced – it wasn't as if Sherlock had a great record for keeping his friends safe from attack.

Plus there was the fact that she didn't want to encounter any of Sherlock's friends or family…particularly his nosy older brother. Mycroft Holmes was far too sharp-eyed for her liking, and Molly knew she was an appalling actor. So she scuttled quickly between home and work and back again, and stayed at home in the evenings, refusing well-meaning invitations from friends.

To stave off her troubled thoughts, she started to bake again.

Something that very few of her friends knew about mild-mannered, quiet little Dr Molly Hooper was that she _loved_ baking, always had done. It took her back to lazy Sunday afternoons in the kitchen, dangling her legs from a stool and watching Mum mix and whisk and stir and knead a mixture into something that, later on, would be served up, steaming and delicious, for tea. Sometimes, she would 'help' – dropping spoonfuls of cake mixture into little paper cups, cutting biscuit mixture into animal shapes, stealing little bits of salty uncooked dough and rolling them between finger and thumb as Mum kneaded and rolled out pastry for lemon curd tarts.

Later, when she was older, Mum taught her the basics, and then she carried on from that, experimenting, developing her own recipes. It wasn't even so much the finished product, satisfying though it was to produce something delicious, but there was something _sensual_ about the act of preparation. She loved rolling up her sleeves and getting her hands and forearms covered in flour, sinking her fingers into soft, yielding dough, pouring lemon syrup over a freshly baked cake, piping icing onto little biscuits. Since Molly was not the type to binge on unhealthy food, her friends and work colleagues were soon the happy recipients of whatever sweet treat she had "just whipped up" the previous night.

It was just after delivering a carefully-wrapped Lemon and Poppy Seed Traybake to a delighted Mike Stamford that she received the phone call.

"Miss Hooper?" The man's voice sounded familiar, but she couldn't immediately place it.

"Yes? Who is this, and how do you have my number?"

"It's Mycroft Holmes. You carried out the autopsy on my brother."

Her spine tensed immediately. Here it came… She knew she wouldn't be able to keep up the pretence for very long.

"Mmm?" she responded in a non-committal manner.

There was a silence at the other end and then Mycroft's voice came again, cutting through any objections she might have been about to make. "Look, I'm a busy man and I don't have time for any denials. You and I have a secret in common, I think, and it'll be to your advantage to agree to meet me. Will you do that?"

She blinked at his directness and agreed to a meeting after her shift.

They met in a nondescript café close to Bart's and he ordered tea and scones before getting to the point.

"I know my brother is alive, and I know that you helped him. Don't worry," he added quickly at her fearful look. "I'm not going to turn you in for the false autopsy. I am _glad_ you helped him."

"So am I," she agreed, fervently, not able to tell whether it was relief at his words or the knowledge that someone else shared the burden that made her heart a little lighter.

He cut his scone up, spreading it with butter and jam, before looking up at her again. "I'll come to the point. What do you want, Miss Hooper? You can have any payment you ask for, if it'll keep you quiet."

She was offended by the implication, and slammed her cup down so loudly that he looked around the quiet café nervously. "I don't _expect_ any payment! I did it for _him_. I'm his friend. If that's the only reason you invited me here, then I think we're done already."

She made to rise, but he put a hand on her arm. "No – please, wait a minute. Please finish your tea, at least."

She sank down into her seat again and picked up her cup, giving him a suspicious look. He looked at her intently for a moment before his face softened. "I apologise. It was not my intention to offend you. Please forgive me…I'm afraid we Holmes' brothers are not in the business of receiving favours from 'friends' who expect no reward, so it is something of a habit of mine to presume… Nevertheless, the offer is still there. You have my gratitude, and if there's anything I can do, now or in the future…"

She looked out of the window, distracted by a dark figure skulking on the other side of the road. As her heart beat faster, she saw it was simply a teenage boy in a hoodie, and she shook herself, irritated by her own paranoia.

"Keep me safe," she said, suddenly.

Mycroft looked perplexed, so she hurried to explain. "He told me not to worry, but he can't have eyes _everywhere_. If anyone else finds out I helped him…"

He nodded, seeming to understand. "Of course. I will make it my priority to ensure you are watched and protected at all times."

"Thank you." As she smiled at him, she realised that she had nothing to go on beyond a casual agreement. However, something told her that Mycroft Holmes was not so negligent in his promises as his younger brother. There was a pleasing solidity about the older Holmes brother that Sherlock lacked.

Talking of which…he clearly liked his food too. Although not so much the food in this rather cheap café. He had taken a bite of his scone but returned the rest to the plate with a resigned look on his face.

"I'm not quite sure why I bothered. I should have been able to tell that this place was unlikely to produce anything edible. I wouldn't eat it if I were you. It's dry and quite unappetising."

She hadn't touched her scone, having already examined it with an expert eye and deduced that it had been cooked the previous evening. "I knew it would be. That's the trouble with scones – they have to be served fresh. And this -," she crumbled it with a critical finger, "- even if it _had_ been baked today, it wouldn't have been very nice. Over-mixed dough."

"You seem to know a bit about it," he murmured, doubtfully.

She smiled again. "Oh, Mr Holmes, you have no idea…"

* * *

The following afternoon, Mycroft was busy updating himself on Serbian exports when his PA brought in a large white cardboard cake box and laid it in front of him with some ceremony and just the impression of a smirk on her immaculately made-up face.

He looked at it. It was addressed to him in small, neat, handwriting, with a greater element of hope than precision:

**Mr Mycroft Holmes**

**Somewhere in the Government (possibly quite high up)**

**Whitehall**

**SW1A 2AF**

The box was secured with a yellow ribbon.

He frowned at his PA. "Did you order any food?" He could see it wasn't from Fortnum and Mason's, his usual provider of sweet treats. At one time, it might have been a joke from Sherlock, but not now.

Anthea raised her eyes from her Blackberry just long enough to look at the box with another slight smirk before shaking her head.

He shrugged his shoulders. The box would have been passed as non-hazardous by his security team; probably they thought it was from a child or just some kind of private joke, but clearly it was no threat to him. He opened it, his nose twitching at the delicious, freshly-baked smell that emerged. Inside, half a dozen scones nestled in one compartment, while another contained a small lidded dish of home-made raspberry jam and a third housed a sealed jar of fresh cream.

Mycroft opened the note that came with the box and raised his eyebrows as he read it.

"Devonshire Scones. Must be eaten by 4PM this afternoon or frozen.

The trick is in the glaze.

And thank you.

Molly Hooper."

Anthea looked up at him inquiringly. "Shall I put the Serbian Trade Delegation through to you now, Sir?"

Mycroft looked at the contents of the box in some satisfaction. "Actually, could you reschedule them for later, please? _Much_ later. And bring me a plate, a spoon and a knife."

* * *

And so began the odd friendship between Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper.

It was discreet at first. For the next twenty-two months, the two would meet once a fortnight without fail, so that Mycroft could reassure Molly regarding Sherlock's wellbeing. Sometimes, they would meet in a café (although they'd learnt their lesson concerning second-rate cakes and would stick to tea only) and sometimes in a park.

Initially, the meetings could be as short as fifteen minutes, and their conversation was stilted. Gradually, however, the duration increased to thirty minutes and then an hour or even longer, depending on their schedules. And the conversation began to flow.

It shouldn't have worked, really. After all, the only topic they had in common was Sherlock. She didn't know much about art; he detested the books she read. They both quite liked music, but their tastes didn't overlap much there either. And yet…and yet it _worked_. They were both good listeners and both fairly tolerant of differences of opinion. Mycroft disliked mediocrity, but found, much to his surprise, that beneath the mousy appearance and the silly nervous laugh, Molly was an intelligent woman. Away from Sherlock, her nerves disappeared and she was able to converse with him in a witty, sensible manner. For her part, Molly found that Mycroft was by no means as officious and cold as he first appeared, and she appreciated his wry humour and wide knowledge of the world.

And then Mycroft received two tickets for the Rossini opera at Covent Garden and couldn't think of anyone to ask, but the performance happened to fall on a 'Molly day' so it seemed sensible to invite her. And, of course, it was only polite to invite her to dinner beforehand. And then there was the time that Molly read about the Vermeer exhibition at the Tate and recalled that Mycroft was a fan of the Dutch painters… And so it went on.

They rarely varied their meeting schedule. It was always every other week – the exact day, time and location might vary according to Mycroft's frenetic schedule, but Molly could expect to receive a text at the beginning of the relevant week, giving details of the meeting point. It was usually easier for Mycroft to fit the meeting in his own schedule and he usually seemed to know when she was free. It didn't occur to either of them to increase the meetings to once a week, but equally it never occurred to them to reduce the frequency.

There was no romantic subtext; both of them could attest to that. Neither felt the slightest temptation to move their friendship towards something more intimate. It was simply companionship. It was something to look forward to.

And Molly had the security of knowing that she was being watched all the time. That might have freaked out most people – she certainly found it disconcerting when she first noticed security cameras rotating towards her – but Molly was used to Sherlock and the concept of having no secrets. Even the camera outside her block of flats was monitored for any unusual activity or the appearance of strangers, day or night.

Meanwhile, she kept baking, and now she had a clear objective in mind as she produced new and ever more elaborate concoctions. Anthea never quite stopped smirking at the beribboned boxes that arrived at work, but frankly Mycroft didn't care what she or any of his staff thought. He even cancelled his Fortnum's order; nothing they produced was as delicious as Molly's home cooked cakes, anyway.

Sometimes, the goods were delivered directly to Mycroft's home. He would often return late at night to find something delicious on the unit in his kitchen or left in the fridge by his maid. Of course, this played havoc with his diet, so he made sure he increased his exercise regime in his home gym.

And so life went on…until, twenty three months after his fall, Sherlock returned.

There was now, theoretically, no further reason for Mycroft and Molly to meet, but somehow neither of them got around to cancelling their little arrangement. And in fact, only two aspects changed: they no longer needed to be careful when talking about Sherlock and, inevitably, their meetings were no longer secret. It would've been impossible to keep such a secret from Sherlock at any rate. So, both were now subject to a certain degree of bemused (and _amused_ ) speculation as to what on Earth they were up to.

If asked, Molly would simply say that she valued Mycroft's advice and support. If _he_ were asked, Mycroft would point out that it was a break from the office environment and that he appreciated Molly's cooking. Neither would describe the other as a friend…and yet both knew that there was a friendship there.

There were certain characteristics of Mycroft that Molly was often reminded of, particularly when she saw those security cameras swivel in her direction or when she noticed that she was being shadowed by a man who looked like any other passing businessman but was not. She remembered the keenness of his expression, the way he would turn his face from side to side very slightly as they walked through a park, ever alert to dangers. The time he took an instinctive half-step in front of her when a teenager attempted a dangerous-looking skateboarding stunt nearby. The ever-present umbrella that he would use to shield her from sudden squalls of rain. The angle of his head as he listened intently to her over a restaurant meal. The steady quiet voice that explained rather than patronised when she didn't understand a specific art concept or needed the plot of an opera explained to her.

And, as Mycroft bit into a generous slice of moist carrot cake with mascarpone topping or some other creation that was so perfect it brought tears to his eyes, he'd be instantly reminded of a jaunty figure walking through the rain without seeming to notice it. The slightly nervous manner in which she pushed a lock of hair off her face. A surprisingly cheeky laugh. The way she would tilt her face up in curiosity as he pointed out a particular feature on a painting. The smile on her face as she listened to a piece of music that she liked.

It wasn't romance, though – very definitely _not_. It was friendship, pure and simple.

So, yes, there's a reason why Molly walks the streets without fear these days

And, yes, there's a reason why Mycroft has to use his exercise equipment more often these days.

But, he reflects as he wanders into his kitchen in his gym clothes and cuts himself a slice of rich fruit cake with white royal icing…it's definitely worth it.


	2. "I could write a preface on how we met..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should acknowledge one idea in this chapter - an analogy about the sun and moon. If it sounds familiar, it's because I remember reading something similar in an Agatha Christie and liking the idea of it.
> 
> I forgot disclaimers in the first chapter - slapped wrist for me. Most characters here belong to ACD and their modern incarnations plus Molly Hooper belong to Moffatt/Gatiss/Thompson and the BBC. I am indebted to Louise Brealey and Mark Gatiss, the talented actors who created two characters that could have been merely 'background' and gave them a life of their own.

If Molly is ever asked when and where she and Mycroft first met, she will always say in the mortuary on that bitterly cold Christmas Eve, without specifying the exact circumstances of the occasion.

And Mycroft will gently shake his head and tell her _no_ , that was _not_ the first time they met. He will, instead, cite a mild spring afternoon a couple of years earlier, when Molly was so busy staring at the back of a certain consulting detective as he strode out of Bart's that she quite failed to avoid bumping into a tall man in a suit. She had looked up enough to mutter "sorry" somewhere in the vicinity of his chest before slinking off.

Molly will, of course, not remember this - why on earth would she, and for all she knows he's making the whole thing up - and Mycroft will mildly point out that she was too busy staring at his brother to notice _anyone_.

If Sherlock happens to be in the vicinity, which happens rather more often these days than it used to, he will snort at Mycroft's words and point out that it's hardly surprising that she didn't notice Mycroft back then, especially if he was wearing _that_ suit and, in any case, he's just jealous that his brother is better-looking. And Mycroft will smile sweetly at his brother and retort that Sherlock's a fine one to talk about jealously between siblings.

And then Molly will tell them _both_ to shut up and will shove a forkfull of mincemeat loaf cake directly into Sherlock's mouth to make her point. Mycroft will laugh at the look of shock on his brother's face, while being secretly miffed that Molly should waste a sizeable portion of one of his favourite cakes on a man who certainly won't appreciate it.

Although…Sherlock _will_ eat it with every sign of enjoyment, once Molly's back is turned. He always did have a sweet tooth even if he will never acknowledge it. And as he does so, he will give his brother a particularly smug look, knowing full well that it was this very same cake that caused all the trouble in the first place…

* * *

" _Mmm_ …" John took a mouthful of Molly's latest creation and chewed it with great relish. "That is _delicious_."

"You like it?" Molly asked.

"I don't _like_ it – I _love_ it. What's it called?"

"Oh, I don't know really. It's a new invention. I was thinking of making one for Mrs Hudson, as a Christmas present."

It was ten days before Christmas, and John had popped in with an invitation to the, by now, traditional Christmas party at 221B Baker Street and also a list of the party food they needed Molly to provide. It was Mary who had planned the party this year, and she would be the first to admit that cooking was not one of her many skills.

Molly skimmed her eyes down the list, smiling. "How did Sherlock take it?"

"Oh, you know _him_. Moaned about Christmas being irrelevant and Christmas decorations doubly so… Doesn't stop him from practising Christmas carols on his violin though."

Molly could visualise it. Sherlock lived alone in 221B now, although John and Mary often visited him, either separately or together, along with their infant daughter Elena. The previous year, when Mary was heavily pregnant, they had been staying with Sherlock and Mycroft's parents, but this year both brothers had refused point-blank to travel to the Cotswolds (both probably still very conscious of the disaster with Magnussen that had unfolded on that occasion). The consulting detective might have secretly hoped for a solitary Christmas, but the Watsons had already moved in for the holiday.

Mary had taken the place over with her usual good-natured practicality and was cleaning, tidying and decorating with relish, riding over Sherlock's half-hearted complaints. Her excuse, to which he had no good answer, was that his god-daughter had just started to walk and it was therefore _not_ _good_ to have half-finished experiments and toxic substances scattered about all over the place.

Molly mused, her hands suspended above the bowl in which she was currently mixing up the 'official' batch. "I suppose I might call this one a mincemeat loaf cake. Sounds a bit boring, but that's what it basically _is_. I'm not all that good at names. Do you think Mrs Hudson'll like it?"

"Forget Mrs H., _we'd_ love it. Especially Mary. Are you making one for Mycroft too?" he added, with a teasing glint in his eye.

She blushed. " _Don't start_. Sherlock's bad enough with the endless insinuations. Yes, I probably will… _Look_ , we really _are_ just friends."

"If you say so," he replied, good-naturedly, as he cut himself another slice of her 'test' version.

"I don't know _why_ everyone keeps going on about it," she muttered, stirring the mincemeat into the dough. "Even Sherlock. I mean, for Heaven's sake, what's _wrong_ with two people being just good friends? That's what I don't understand. We don't all have to get married and have kids like you – not that there's anything wrong with that, of course, but some of us just like a bit of companionship. Someone to go to the theatre with, that kind of thing, without being too serious about it. I do have my _own_ life," she added, trying to forget the fact that said life didn't have an awful lot going for it right now _apart_ from Mycroft. She _really_ needed to find herself a man.

"Mmm," he said, not really listening as he ate the cake with relish. "You know, this is _really_ good. I mean, better than…well, pretty much anything. You could publish a book of cake recipes. You're good enough."

She laughed, startled. "Don't be silly, John! I'm not _that_ good…am I?" she added, doubtfully.

He put his hand on her shoulder. "Believe me. You _are_ that good."

* * *

Molly will argue with Mycroft over the definitions of a 'first meeting'. She will argue that since it was one-sided, that earlier meeting doesn't count anyway. He will counter that it _does_ count since they _did_ meet – it's not _his_ fault that she was too busy ogling his little brother to pay any attention.

And she will open her mouth to argue…and then close it again, because there's truth in that.

But Mycroft's not being entirely honest himself. He cannot say with any great certainty that Molly made much impression, on either occasion. He had, of course, engineered the collision in order to get a closer look at the woman that was giving his brother illegal access to some pretty powerful chemicals. He needed no more than a brief look to confirm his theory – the look of longing on her face as she stared at Sherlock's retreating back was proof enough that Molly Hooper was no spy in disguise. His brother was safe enough – assuming he could prevent the woman becoming too dangerously attached to him.

The second time, he'd been more interested in Sherlock's reaction to the Adler woman's corpse. Molly had struck him as a rather silly woman on that occasion. Indeed, he had been most surprised to learn that his brother had turned to the very same person to help him in his time of need. However, Mycroft was a pragmatic man, able to put aside his own prejudices to recognise the value of the mousy young pathologist that Sherlock had trusted. Very early on in their 'proper' acquaintance, he could see that Molly was actually no fool, despite appearances.

Molly can make no better claim. Mycroft was a grey nameless figure, standing in the shadow of his more charismatic brother. The two of you are like the sun and the moon, she will tell him, much later. Sherlock is the sun and when it's out, you don't notice the moon, even though it's right there. But when the sun sets, the moonlight is all you can see.

And as it happens, she prefers the moon. The light it shines is kind, calm, measured, helping to guide one's way in the dark. Not hot and harsh and glaringly bright, like the sun's rays. And, after a bit, you always know that the moon is there, even during the day when it's not so obvious. She won't tell him any of _that_ , of course.

* * *

Molly deliberately didn't think about John's words until Christmas was over and done with. She'd had a quiet dinner with Mycroft on the 23rd, had enjoyed the Baker Street party on Christmas Eve and had made her dutiful Christmas Day visit to her mother down in Surrey.

Back home on Boxing Day, pottering around her kitchen and compiling a shopping list for an apple dessert she was planning to make, she paused and remembered what he had said.

It was true that she no longer stuck to the recipe books. Most of what she made was based on the classics but always with an original twist. Original enough for a book? Well…there was the fact that she took a scientific approach to the baking process, which gave her a higher-than-average success rate with the finished product. Even Mycroft had said more than once that her creations were far more palatable than anything he'd ever tasted from the top London patisseries.

Yes… It _could_ work.

Shopping list forgotten, she sat at the kitchen with her notebook of scribbled recipes and began to plan.

* * *

"No deliveries today?" Mycroft asked Anthea casually, as she came through with some more files.

She shook her head as she turned away, already preoccupied by her Blackberry again.

He suppressed a sigh. It was probably a good thing. The holiday season had not been particularly good for his waistline. Christmas Day had been a thankfully solitary affair, but he'd flown to Washington on Boxing Day and had stayed in the USA over New Year, which always played havoc with his diet. Coming back, he'd expected to find something from Molly in his fridge, but it had been unusually empty. He knew that Molly was off work and hadn't gone away, so it seemed odd that she hadn't been in touch.

Oh well. The next 'Molly' day was at the end of this week, so he'd soon find out. Talking of which…he took out his phone and texted a time and location, smiling as he imagined her surprise.

Four days later, she arrived at his well-appointed Chelsea flat at 7PM on the dot. Not that he would have expected anything else, having sent his car for her.

She looked around her at the spacious penthouse with something like awe. In all their acquaintance, they had never met at either of their homes. At first, when their meetings had been clandestine it had been too dangerous, but even later on, neither had suggested it. Mycroft liked to keep his city apartment private – none of his colleagues or relatives had ever been invited here - and he assumed Molly felt the same way about her own flat. She knew where he lived, of course, having posted various cakes here during the last three years, and he knew her flat from seeing it on security cameras.

If she had been surprised to receive an invitation to dine here, she did a good job of hiding it. He was pleased to see that she was holding a promising-looking covered plate in her hands.

"Here, let me take that for you," he suggested, keen to get his hands on whatever it was.

She held it out of reach. "No – it's something new that I want to surprise you with. Where's the kitchen? It just needs warming up…"

He ushered her through to his large, open-plan kitchen/dining area, and her eyes widened at the sight. He hadn't given the kitchen much thought before – Mycroft was not great in the kitchen and relied on his part-time cook to provide anything more demanding than a basic pasta dish – but looking at it afresh through Molly's eyes, he could see why it might impress. The equipment was state-of-the-art and the units were spacious and kept spotlessly clean.

"What I couldn't do in _here_ ," she muttered, before shaking herself. She seemed a little distracted tonight, he noticed. "Um – ok, I'll put it here for now…"

She leaned past him to put the covered plate on a unit. He'd been standing close to try to catch a whiff of the dessert's fragrance, but found himself with a face full of her hair instead. Realising he was more than usually close, he stepped back a little clumsily, the scent of her shampoo sharp in his nostrils.

"OK, I'll deal with that later. So…what's for the main course?" she asked, before giving him a strange look.

His thoughts seemed to have scrambled in a way that was completely alien to him. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to respond. "Oh – just lobster ravioli with sautéed courgettes and leeks. I thought something a little different to the usual winter fare…" Of course, she didn't need to know that he wasn't the actual cook (who had already gone, leaving him strict instructions regarding the final preparations).

"Sounds lovely." Her smile was warm, but there was something missing in it… Or was he just imagining it?

They settled into the meal, the conversation flowing as it always did. She asked about his time in Washington and he forced himself to make civil inquiries as to his brother's party – it had slightly rankled not to have been asked, even if he would almost certainly have refused any invitation.

Halfway through the main course, she hurried into the kitchen area to warm her dessert in the oven, and after the plates had been cleared away, served him a dish of the most delicious apple cake he had ever tasted. It quite literally melted in his mouth and he praised it to the hilt, making her blush delightfully.

"By the way," he added, at one point. "The mincemeat loaf cake was exquisite. My favourite so far, if this does not surpass it. I'm afraid I have already finished it."

Her face lit up, as he had known it would – she loved being complimented on her cakes. "Good, I'm _so_ glad you enjoyed it. I didn't really know what else to get you for Christmas, so a cake seemed appropriate."

"I was a bit surprised you hadn't left anything else for my return from America," he said, watching her carefully. "Not that I ever _expect_ it, you know, but you usually _do_ send a little something as a 'welcome back'." _And I know you haven't been working_ , he added, silently.

Her face dropped and she gave her full attention to her own serving of the apple cake. "Yes. Sorry, I did mean to, but I've been a little busy – you know, preoccupied with…things."

He instantly felt guilty. " _Please_ don't apologise, Molly. I don't expect these gifts – I only ask because it's unusual and I had hoped you were not…unwell."

"Well, I've been busy, er…typing up my recipes. I think I told you - they're all in this scruffy notebook, and I was worried I'd lose them, so…" She chased the last piece of cake around her dish with a spoon, still not looking at him. "I thought I'd type them up and get it printed out."

"I see. You should be careful that no one breaks into your computer security," he commented, pretending to make a joke of it. "You wouldn't want someone to steal your recipes." _My recipes_ , he thought to himself. _She makes them for me. Not anyone else_.

He was only partly joking; he _did_ feel a certain degree of possessiveness and liked knowing that no one else tasted quite the same cakes as he did (he didn't count Sherlock, the Watsons or Mrs Hudson, all of whom were clearly philistines when it came to fine dining).

She gave an unconvincing laugh. "Oh, I'm sure that won't happen."

 _Interesting_ , he thought, as he smiled benevolently at her. _She's lying to me_.

* * *

Molly had felt a little guilty about not being entirely honest with Mycroft, but the truth was that she wanted to surprise him. She had a vague idea that she might get the book published before his birthday the following August – or printed professionally, at least – so she could present him with a signed copy.

However, that was easier said than done. She knew basically nothing about the publishing industry. So far, her research of just a handful of days had given her a list of publishers who were most likely to take on a new cookery book and a list of agents taken from the acknowledgement pages of her favourite cookery books and the Writer's & Artist's Yearbook. She'd carefully drafted a query letter, sent it out to various agents along with a sample recipe and had sat back, waiting for the offers to pour in.

Several weeks' later, she'd received no reply from any of them. Gritting her teeth, she went back to the library and did some more research, putting together another list. Out went the next batch of letters by e-mail.

And then another set of letters in March. This time, she _did_ receive one acknowledgment of her letter, but the agent regretted that…etc. So that was that.

Molly was just at the point where she thought she might as well get the manuscript printed out, so she could at least present it to Mycroft as an unpublished book, when another e-mail arrived. It stated, briefly, that the agent was prepared to meet Molly if she could contact the office and arrange a time. Excited beyond reason and already considering book titles, Molly made an appointment for her next day off.

The appointment was a disaster – or seemed to be, as far as she could tell. The female agent was pleasant enough but clearly busy and appeared unimpressed by Molly's unprofessional presentation. Molly was utterly unprepared and stumbled over most of the questions she was asked. She could see by the woman's face that she was not likely to get in touch again, and she left the office feeling foolish and humiliated.

"Doctor Hooper!"

She turned, surreptitiously wiping a stray tear from her eye. It was the nice young man who had been sitting in the adjoining office with the door open while she had her meeting. He was running along the road after her.

"Are you alright? You seemed a little…upset when you left." His blue eyes were warm with concern and she found herself blushing slightly as she replied.

"I'm quite alright really. Just feeling a little stupid." She laughed lightly, to hide her embarrassment. "I'm not very experienced with publishing, you see… Well, actually I'm not experienced _at all_."

He smiled, the lines under his eyes crinkling attractively. There was something about him that seemed a little familiar… "You weren't so bad. It's just about getting your presentation right. Would you like me to give you some tips?"

"Would you? I don't know why you would want to…" she replied, slowly and with some suspicion.

He spread his arms wide. "No ulterior motive – I _promise_ you. I just happen to think that your book has potential, that's all. I'm Paula's junior partner, so I don't have much say in her decisions, but I know potential when I see it. I saw your recipe and I can tell how good you are."

She smiled, all the time wondering what it was about him that she seemed to recognise. "Well – that's really good of you. Thank you. Um – I didn't catch your name?"

He looked over his shoulder at the nearby café and then held out his arm to her with a wide grin. "It's Tom."

* * *

Mycroft looked at the grainy footage. The angle hadn't been great, but he could see Molly smiling at a tall, dark-haired man who was holding his arm out to her. She linked her hand through it and they walked away from the camera towards a café. There was something about the man that looked vaguely familiar…

Well. It was bound to happen sooner or later. She was an attractive, intelligent young woman. Molly's love life had nothing to do with him - he had no interest in it _whatsoever_. Nevertheless it would be wise to check the man out; if nothing else, it might ease the oddly uncomfortable sensation located somewhere beneath his ribs if he knew he didn't have to worry about her safety.

He looked up at Anthea, who was waiting expectantly. "Full security background, checking particularly for any connections with Mr Moriarty. And get me a decent photograph."

She nodded and turned away, but not before he saw that damned smirk on her face again. Really, it was quite irritating, that look of hers. If she wasn't such an impeccable PA…

She _was_ extremely efficient, and it was not long before he was presented with a thin file by one of her own minions, telling him all he needed to know about one Thomas Clarke, a thirty-four year old publishing agent. There were no suspicious gaps in his history, no connection whatsoever to any underground organisations. He was exactly as he appeared to be – a pleasant, intelligent, well-educated and reasonably wealthy young man.

That should have made him feel better about the whole thing. It didn't.

At the bottom of the file, he found a few copies of photographs taken in recent years, and pulled them towards him. As he saw the first picture of a smiling Mr Clarke, taken at a publishing conference, his breath caught.

Thomas Clarke could have passed for a younger version of himself, quite easily. Add on ten years and he might _be_ him.

He quickly retrieved the page giving the man's personal details. Six feet one, dark brown hair, grey-blue eyes, long straight nose… He glanced back at the photograph and then at another. No doubt about it – if Mycroft had ever needed to resort to a double for security reasons, Thomas Clarke would have been top on the list of possibilities. The likeness really was uncanny.

He called to his PA, and Anthea came back into the room. At his urging, she lifted her eyes from her ever-present smartphone for long enough to glance at the photograph. The minute rising of one perfect eyebrow told him everything he needed to know.

"By the way, I checked his current work status," she added, with a degree of meaning in her voice that he had learned to heed carefully over the years. Anthea was no fool. "He specialises in getting cookery books published – and Doctor Hooper had an appointment with his senior partner just before that security footage was captured."

With that final comment, she raised the other eyebrow significantly before returning to her smartphone.

Mycroft stared at the image, noting the smile on Molly's face.

A boyfriend for Doctor Hooper? Inevitable, sooner or later.

A publisher for 'his' recipes – the cakes she had made for _him_ , _Mycroft_? Completely out of the question.


	3. "And the simple secret of the plot..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to add that I don't really think that Mycroft has the power (or possibly even the cheek) to do what he does in this chapter! It's just a bit of fun.
> 
> BTW, just a quick heads-up for the non-Londoners/non-Brits on a very minor point – the 'Oxford Tube' is not a tube train (as in the London Underground); it's a coach service that runs regularly between London and Oxford. I sometimes think the English language is deliberately designed to confuse non-Brits as much as possible!
> 
> And sorry for the reference to a certain play... what a cliche... ;-)

Molly had had one of _those_ weeks. Her workload tended to increase and decrease at certain times of year – for example, in the winter months or during heatwaves, there'd be an increase in deaths in the elderly, while during the major holidays, she'd see more young victims of stunts that had gone tragically wrong. She was used to the rhythm of the seasons by now.

In the second week of April, however, there was an outbreak of Legionnaire's Disease at two nursing homes, and then a horrific pile-up on the M3 just outside London with multiple mortalities. Not all the victims came to Bart's, of course, but Molly and the other pathologists tended to find in such circumstances that with other mortuaries dealing with heavier workloads, extra bodies would be redirected to them. And that was without the serial rapist and killer that suddenly struck – and in those cases, Greg Lestrade usually _insisted_ on the bodies going to Bart's, mainly because he knew that Sherlock would get more of a free rein there than at any of the capital's other mortuaries.

So, by Friday afternoon, Molly was just about ready to pack it all in, cash her savings and head for the South of France. All that was keeping her hanging on was the fact that Tom was taking her to dinner that night – officially to talk through some ideas about her book, but unofficially because he clearly fancied the pants off her…and frankly, she was rather hoping that would be the outcome of the evening. She liked him very much, and it'd been far too long…

He was at a conference in Oxford but had promised to skip the final paper to be back in London in time; they had a reservation at a Mexican restaurant in Highbury and she was very much looking forward to her date.

She was a bit surprised when he texted to say: "Signalling problems – no trains running between Bristol and London. Getting the Oxford Tube", but not unduly concerned, as the coach was generally reliable.

She was a little more concerned when she got off the Underground to find her phone beeping once again. It said: "Oxford Tube not running! Looking for a taxi."

She hurried into her flat and had a nice hot shower. When she wandered back into the lounge in her bathrobe, there was another message: "Can't get a taxi, they're all booked. Mad here, will probably have to stay overnight. Sorry."

She sagged onto her sofa. So much for the romantic evening.

* * *

Mycroft smiled as he watched the news. It was full of the usual hysteria whipped up by the British media in any circumstance when the transport system was more than usually buggered up and people weren't able to get home as quickly as normal. _Honestly_ , the fuss some of them made…

The train line had been easy enough – he'd arranged for a major signalling problem near Didcot Parkway, which did for the entire line. The coach was trickier, involving the planting of a suspicious package so the entire bus station had to be evacuated. The taxi was more of a gamble as he had no power there, but he'd taken the gamble that the conference was hosting a large number of bullish, ball-breaking publishers, who'd be impatient enough to elbow aside an amiable easy-going man like Tom Clarke in the vicious scrum for taxis.

When he saw that Mr Clarke's credit card had been used to book an additional room at the conference hotel, he noted with satisfaction that he had been right.

Now to put stage two into action. He reached for his mobile and dialled the by-now familiar number.

"Hello, Mycroft."

Her soft voice sounded rather subdued and he experienced a brief sensation of guilt.

"Good evening, Molly. I hope I'm not interrupting anything…?"

She gave him a hollow laugh. "Not now, anyway. What can I do for you?"

"I have reservations for the National Theatre – Danny Boyle's production of Frankenstein – and my…friend…cannot attend after all."

That needed some work – he hadn't counted on the necessity of inventing an individual who might legitimately (and voluntarily) be attending the theatre with him. Fortunately, she seemed to be distracted enough not to interrogate him, and he hurried on: "If I send a car for you, we could just make it to the play in time."

There was a slight pause before she said, "Why not? OK, I'll be ready shortly."

The line went dead and he breathed a sigh of relief. The subterfuge this time might have been relatively easy to arrange, but for some reason, it _felt_ far harder than it usually did for the seasoned spymaster.

* * *

Molly seemed a bit subdued at first, but the play's theme captured her attention and by the end of the evening, she was enthusiastically discussing the nature of existence and the dilemma faced by Victor Frankenstein. They had a late supper at a quiet restaurant overlooking the river. He was strangely mesmerised by her face, lit only by candles and the outside lamps, made animated by the topic of conversation…so much so that he found it unusually difficult to come up with well-informed replies to her observations. He knew she'd just had a hell of a week, so he put his odd behaviour down to admiration of her ability to cast off the miserable realities of her day job.

Eventually, they fell silent – it was that point in the early hours where they were the only remaining customers and the staff were hovering while attempting not to seem impatient. Mycroft was half-tempted to order another bottle of wine just to annoy them, but Molly yawned, covering her mouth with her hand.

"I'm sorry," she said, apologetically. "It's been a really tiring week, and I could do with some sleep."

"Of course." He drained his glass and nodded at the waiter. "Are you… what are your plans this weekend?" He winced; he hadn't meant to say that.

She gave him a surprised look. "Well, I don't really know yet. I had been sort-of planning…" She laughed, looking a little flushed, and took another gulp of wine. "Anyway, my Saturday looks free now, so…" She looked thoughtful. "There's some writing-up of recipes to do…"

He jumped in, quickly. "Can that wait? I have the day off tomorrow and I was wondering whether you would care for a trip out of the city. We could – er – go for a walk, and then perhaps a pub lunch. The Chilterns might be nice…"

She looked rather stunned and he winced again. "Um…I didn't know you actually _walked_ , Mycroft. _Or_ did 'pub lunches'."

"Oh, well I -," he shrugged. "You know, with the job, I don't get so much opportunity these days…"

She was still looking surprised, and perhaps a little suspicious. "In all the time I've known you, I'd never have guessed… I suppose I don't know you as well as I thought…"

* * *

Mycroft groaned in relief as he lowered himself into his favourite armchair, a much-needed glass of whiskey by his side.

Today's outing had served to prevent Molly from working on her book for one day at least, but quite plainly he couldn't keep up this level of interference for long.

It wasn't just the sheer embarrassment he had felt at the odd expression on her face when she'd seen him in his corduroy trousers, waxed jacket and walking shoes (Mycroft hadn't the least idea what one wore for a walk in the country and had had to rely on childhood memories of his father's casual wear). It wasn't even lunch at the rural pub he'd selected, which to be fair had been quite pleasant – Anthea had found it for him. It had been the _walking_.

Mycroft would be the first to admit that his job didn't require a particularly high level of fitness, although he did try to make good use of his home gym and there were still rare occasions when he was called upon to go undercover himself. The Chilterns had seemed like a good idea as he had vague childhood memories of reluctantly trailing behind Mother and Father on 'family bonding' outings, with Sherlock sulking somewhere in the distance. He hadn't anticipated that the route suggested by his erstwhile PA would be _quite_ so hilly.

Molly, who'd looked surprisingly fetching in maroon jeans just tight enough to show off her slim legs and a bright green jumper that brought out the hazel in her eyes, was clearly much fitter, judging by the way she'd scampered up the steep paths. He'd spent the vast majority of the day puffing up slopes after her. He'd been quite unable to find the breath to reply while she'd waxed lyrical on the beautiful scenery and the bright sunny spring day. In fact, the view immediately _ahead_ of him had been far more distracting than the hills and woods of the Chilterns…which had been another minor source of discomfort.

Not that he had _any_ interest in Molly Hooper of _that_ nature _. Not at all_. It was merely that those jeans of hers _were_ rather tight (surely they couldn't be comfortable?) and he _was_ a normal - and heterosexual –man, despite various wicked insinuations made by his younger brother. From time to time, to avoid any embarrassment, he'd been forced to think extremely hard about that memorable occasion when he'd seen the Queen in her nightie (there _had_ been a constitutional crisis at the time).

Molly had seemed to enjoy her day out, so he supposed that was something. Apart from the fact that it was nice to see her looking happy and relaxed (and really quite ridiculously pretty), the reality was that a happy Molly was a Molly who was even more inclined than usual to be creative in the kitchen. With any luck, he'd be reaping the benefits in a couple of days.

Groaning again as he stretched his weary limbs, he reflected on the fact that a much more efficient plan was required if he was to prevent Molly getting her book published.

* * *

The next few weeks were frantic for Molly.

She'd finally managed to have that date with Tom, and it was as much fun as she had anticipated. He was charming, clever, kind, funny, and clearly found her very attractive, which was the main thing. Molly wasn't used to receiving such flattering attention from someone she actually found attractive; up to now, she'd either been inadvertently dating psychopaths, or pursued by men she didn't like much, or she'd been wasting her time mooning over men who'd had no interest in her - notoriously Sherlock, although she'd definitely got over _that_ crush.

However, although she had enjoyed several leisurely snogging sessions (and Tom was a _really_ good kisser), there was something that prevented her from taking their relationship to the next logical step, even though he was clearly quite keen. First of all, she didn't feel as if she knew him all that well – they hadn't even met that much yet. Their dates kept getting disrupted by the strangest things – either she'd be called in unexpectedly to cover a sick colleague or he'd have to excuse himself for a variety of work and family reasons. When they _were_ on a date, she'd taken to tensing up every time a mobile rang within hearing range.

She also had a suspicion that Tom's approaches to romantic relationships were slightly more casual than her own. There was just something about him…something she couldn't quite put her finger on. It had occurred to her that it might be an idea to put him in the vicinity of Sherlock and get an instant deduction on how faithful he was likely to be…but that seemed a little harsh.

She could just as easily have done with Sherlock's acute observations on his older brother's behaviour. Mycroft, formerly a creature of extreme habit, was behaving in an odd manner. He'd taken to contacting her much more frequently, instead of sticking to their usual, once-a-fortnight, meet-ups. Even more strangely, he seemed to have the prescience to phone on the very evenings when a meeting with Tom had fallen through, and could quite often suggest an alternative. During the period between mid-April and the end of June, they met at least twice and sometimes three times a week. Sometimes it was only for a brief coffee when he 'happened to be near Barts', but he also took her to the opera twice, to the theatre once, on several dinners and even on a brief helicopter trip to see a rather nice cottage in Gloucestershire that he was thinking of buying as a weekend retreat and 'needed a fresh opinion on'.

On several occasions, she resolved to ask him why he'd altered the parameters of their usual arrangement…but then she'd be enjoying herself so much that she wouldn't feel inclined to ruin the atmosphere. There was no doubt about it – Mycroft _could_ be fun to be with, in an odd way. His dry sense of humour and considerable intellect often made their meetings far more stimulating than her dates with Tom, but it was more than that. There was something almost… _restful_ in Mycroft's company, even when they were energetically debating (arguing) about some point or another. She didn't feel as if she needed to assess his motives or question her own behaviour, as she frequently did when she was with Tom. She felt she could _relax_ with Mycroft.

Restful and relaxing, yes…but also something else. There were times when… when they were eating and both would reach for the same condiment at once and their hands would brush ever so slightly…and she'd feel an odd tingle that would linger on her skin long after he had removed his hand. And sometimes she'd look at him…and whatever she'd been about to stay would suddenly dry in her throat. Or they'd be side-by-side at the opera, and he'd lean towards her to explain something in a low voice, and his thigh would press warmly against hers, and she'd smell the spicy scent of his cologne and feel his warm breath on her cheek…and her heart would suddenly be beating loudly in her ears.

In anyone else, she'd call it attraction, but - but this was _Mycroft_ , for Heaven's sake! Pompous, dry, fiendishly clever, somewhat old-fashioned Mr Mycroft Holmes, with whom she'd fashioned the oddest of friendships over their shared care for Sherlock. A mystery to her still, despite many meetings since their first awkward encounter. She still knew very little about his private life, and he wasn't inclined to share much. For all she knew, he was in a relationship with his beautiful PA (she didn't think it very likely, but how could she tell?). She didn't even know if he liked women, or men, or whether he was as uninterested in sex as his younger brother appeared to be.

And that was a _very_ good point. She'd already fallen in unrequited love for one Holmes brother. She didn't intend to make the same mistake with another.

And she was still working hard on a final draft of the book, in between working full time and trying to develop her relationship with Tom. Frankly, she was too knackered to analyse the situation with Mycroft.

* * *

At the end of June, Tom was sent by his senior partner to Australia for a fortnight to sort out an unexpected staffing crisis in their company's Melbourne branch. He'd continued to stay in touch by e-mail, providing plenty of advice on how to improve the layout of her recipes. By the middle of July, she'd finally come up with a draft of the book that she was happy with.

She'd e-mailed the draft to him and he'd promised to save it and go through it in detail with her when he returned to London.

In the meantime, she'd decided to send it to a printers to get a pre-publication copy made in time for Mycroft's birthday, now only a couple of weeks' away. The company had been recommended by Tom, so it was a terrible shock to receive an apologetic message from them on her Wednesday off, when she'd been planning to collect the complete document from them. There had, apparently, been a small fire at their premises – no one was hurt and the majority of the equipment had been unharmed, but unfortunately, her printout had been lost. That in itself would not have been such a problem, except that the USB she had sent them had somehow been lost… If she could e-mail the document to them, they would prioritise printing out another copy in addition to giving her a partial refund for the inconvenience.

Grumbling under her breath, she turned on her slightly ancient and battered computer. She could probably have done with upgrading the machine before now, but it was a reliable model and had never given her any trouble.

She clicked on the relevant folder in the File Manager…and stared in horror at the screen.

The folder was empty.

In a panic, she backed up through the levels, clicking on a few other folders. She didn't keep an awful lot saved on this computer, mostly administrative stuff like copies of her CV and the few scientific papers she had written over the years.

They were _all_ gone.

Fortunately, Molly had always been very careful about making backup copies, and she fumbled around in her desk drawer for her box of USBs and backup discs. Flicking through them, she was relieved to see that her professional documents had been preserved.

But of her book draft, there was no sign.

Molly frowned, thinking. She'd _definitely_ made three copies, she was sure of _that_ , because she'd wanted to post one to Tom at work, and then she'd wanted one for the printers, and so she'd created a third copy for herself…hadn't she?

Wait a minute, though! She'd _also_ e-mailed a copy to Tom five days' ago, because he was still in Australia and was keen to see a copy as soon as possible… Quickly, she loaded the Internet and clicked on her e-mail…

All the e-mails that she had sent and received 5 days' ago were missing.

* * *

A virus, said the IT expert who visited to investigate. He looked a little dubiously at the ancient computer as he delivered his verdict. He was able to identify and remove the relatively benign little worm that had eaten up her private documents but had left the rest of her software unaffected.

He had no answer for the missing e-mails, though – no virus he'd ever heard of would select and destroy only the e-mails received or sent on a certain date. She could tell by the tone of his voice that he thought she'd probably just deleted them and not remembered. To humour her, he'd gone through her deleted items folders, but there were no sign of them – not on the computer, and not on her smartphone when she accessed her e-mail there.

After he left, she took a deep breath and resolutely told herself not to panic. There was still the copy she'd posted to Tom's office, and, of course, there was the man himself.

She glanced at her clock. It'd be about 11PM in Melbourne, and he'd told her he was going to have an early night because he had a busy final day in the office tomorrow before his flight back to Britain in the evening. So, she dropped the idea of phoning him and instead dialled his office, asking to speak to Paula Davis, Tom's senior partner.

"Miss Hooper?" The woman sounded a little confused, as well she might. She'd sent a letter a couple of months' ago, declining Molly's proposed book in the politest of terms – not surprisingly, as Molly had made such a poor impression on her during their meeting.

Molly realised suddenly that she might be getting Tom into a bit of trouble here. He hadn't promised that he could convince Ms Davis to take her on as a client, but he _had_ been helping her to make a better job of her draft and presentation. She hoped that his partner wouldn't mind too much, as she sheepishly explained that she'd sent a copy of the book on a USB to the office.

Sounding a little impatient, Ms Davis told her to hold on. After a few minutes, she came back to the phone.

"There must be some mistake. There's no USB from you here."

"Are you sure? I mean, isn't his mail piling up while he's away?"

"Hardly," Ms Davis replied, drily. "My PA opens all the mail, his as well as mine, and she says we have not received any USBs in the post within the last two weeks."

"But that's… but I'm _sure_ I sent him a copy…"

"I suggest you check with _him_ , then," the agent snapped, and put the phone down with a decisive click.

She hesitated for a moment before redialling.

"Molly? You alright?" Tom sounded surprised to hear her. In the background, she could hear murmuring voices and then suddenly a woman's high-pitched laugh. That seemed a little odd, but perhaps he'd been dragged out for a farewell drink by his colleagues.

She explained the situation, pausing as she heard him shush the noisy woman in the background. Telling her to hang on, he appeared to move to a quieter location before speaking again.

"Sorry, can you repeat that? You've lost your copy of the book?"

"Yes - I'll explain when I see you. The important thing right _now_ is, do _you_ have a copy?"

"Yes, no problem," he replied, easily. "When you sent me the draft, I saved it and printed out my own copy in the office. It looks great. I won't get a chance tomorrow, but I'll e-mail it back to you as soon as I get home."

She let out a relieved exhale. "Tom…you have _no_ idea what a relief that is. So…I'll see you soon, will I?" she added, tentatively. It felt as if she hadn't seen much of him for a few weeks, even before he'd left for Australia, and she still felt a little unsure of their fledgling relationship – if she could call it that, on the strength of so few dates.

He laughed. " _Very_ soon, I _promise_. Don't worry, Molls, it'll be fine. I need to go, though – the guys are waiting."

She wished him goodnight and a safe flight back, gritting her teeth at 'Molls'. She hadn't quite had the nerve to tell him that she deeply disliked the nickname.

Tom was flying overnight on Thursday, getting into Heathrow at around 7.30 on Friday morning, and he would naturally be jet-lagged, so she didn't expect to hear from him until Saturday at the earliest. It was therefore a surprise to find a message to ring him at lunch time on Friday.

"Hi Molly." He sounded a little confused, and she wondered if she'd woken him up.

"Tom? Sorry, did I wake you? You said to ring…"

"Oh, yeah…" He definitely sounded odd - disoriented even. "Um, well, the thing is, I've had a bit of a weird day. They lost my luggage; it went to Harare by mistake, apparently. How they managed to mix up Harare and Heathrow, I don't know, but the thing of it _is_ … I put the printout in my suitcase. It was a mistake, because I meant to keep it in my hand luggage, but I was in a bit of a dash and somehow I forgot…"

"That's OK," she interrupted, anxiously. "I mean – obviously it's _not_ OK for you and I'm sorry to hear about your case, I hope they'll get it back for you – but what about the USB?"

"Yes, well, that was in my hand luggage. I had it in my laptop case, you see."

" _Had_? What do you mean?"

"Well, I was mugged this morning on the way home."

"Oh, Tom! _No_!" That went some way to explaining his slightly confused tone – the poor man was obviously in shock. "Are you alright? They didn't – did they hurt you?" All thoughts of the book fled; she had visions of a bruised and battered Tom, possibly with a head injury.

"Hurt me? No, no – they didn't touch me. Just waved a knife and demanded my laptop. I was so shocked, I just handed it over, and they got into a car and drove off. They were…it seems a bit _odd_ now I think back on it, but they were quite polite. And they didn't even take my wallet or phone."

"But they – they took your laptop? And the USB?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that, Molls."

She was speechless.

"Not worry, though," he went on. "You e-mailed it to me, so I can just go in and send that back to you. Hang on a sec…"

She waited, holding her breath, for him to return to the phone.

"Well, that's odd." He sounded surprised. "I could've sworn I hadn't deleted it…but it's not there now. And neither's the reply I sent you the same day…"

Somehow, it was no surprise to her that the USB sent to the office never showed up. She was equally unsurprised that Tom's laptop was found abandoned and undamaged but without that copy, and that, when Harare finally sent on his case, the printout was nowhere to be found.

When, two weeks after _that_ , she received a brief and deeply apologetic e-mail from Tom, breaking off their 'relationship' (if it had ever got to that stage) and telling her that he was transferring to Australia to move in with a woman he'd met there, she was entirely beyond surprise.

* * *

Mycroft looked at the USB in his hand, reflectively. It was not actually one of Molly's missing copies.

He'd instructed a hacker to break into Molly's flat, delete the files and e-mails, steal the USB and upload the virus as a cover. He'd also told the man to make a copy of the book before deleting it. He didn't quite know _why_ he'd done that – it was hardly in his interest for there to be even _more_ copies of the damned book floating around.

He opened his desk drawer and placed it carefully in a box, which contained Molly's three USBs plus the copy Tom had made. Tom's mugging had been easy enough to arrange. The agent who had created the small fire at the printers, carefully designed to cause minimum damage, had removed that copy. Ms Davis's PA had been paid to intercept the copy sent to Tom there (she'd also gone into Tom's e-mail system and deleted the attached copy). And diverting the luggage to Harare had hardly been any problem at all.

Anthea had come in and silently placed a cake box on the edge of his desk a few minutes earlier. He pulled it towards himself, opening it with a strange sense of foreboding.

The tangy scent of lemon drifted towards his nostrils. It was one of his favourites – she called it Tangy Lemon Drizzle Traybake. Anthea had left him a plate and some cutlery. He cut himself a slice and put it on the plate, preparatory to tucking in, before he noticed the folded note taped inside the lid.

He put down his fork, peeled it off and unfolded the note, which was in Molly's usual small and neat handwriting:

"Happy Birthday! I know it's not much. I had been working on something special for your birthday, but it's fallen through. Never mind! I'll think of something else. In the meantime…enjoy!"

He put the note down and picked his fork up, slowly, dragging it through the sticky-sweet concoction. For some reason, he wasn't feeling all that hungry today – probably he'd had too much to eat at lunchtime. He put the fork down again.

"I see Molly's been wasting her time and efforts on you again."

Sherlock swanned into the office in his usual careless manner, leaving the door open behind him, and flung himself into the chair on the other side of Mycroft's desk. He picked up his brother's abandoned fork and helped himself to a large forkful of cake, chewing it very deliberately and with obvious enjoyment.

Mycroft glared. "There _is_ such a thing as making an appointment, you know. Even Miss Hooper wouldn't just walk in here, and she'd be far more welcome than _you_."

"More fool _her_ , then," his brother retorted. "She might learn something to her advantage if she _did_."

His eyes flickered in the direction of Mycroft's desk drawer in an obvious manner. "Oh, happy birthday, by the way," he added, mockingly.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You _never_ wish me a happy birthday. We don't _do_ birthdays. Why are you here - and what are you up to?"

"I could ask _you_ the same question," Sherlock answered, his eyes still on the drawer.

Mycroft sighed. "Clearly you know _exactly_ what I've been 'up to'. _How_ you found out, I don't really care to know. Do you intend to tell Miss Hooper what you've learned?"

Sherlock shrugged, the fake smile he'd worn since he entered the room disappearing without trace. "Why should _I_ care? It's not to my advantage for Molly Hooper to become an overnight publishing sensation. She might leave Barts, and who else would put up with me?"

"Who else indeed," Mycroft murmured, watching his brother carefully. "So, if you're not intending to hold this information over me…why _are_ you here?"

"Why did you do it?"

Mycroft blinked at the directness of his brother's question. Before he could respond, Sherlock went on, speaking slowly, his pale face alive with interest:

"You don't want the status quo to change – and the question is, _why not_? Do you suppose that she wouldn't continue to supply _you_ with her delicious creations if she suddenly became famous for them?" Sherlock shook his head, his eyes keen. "No, that _can't_ be your primary concern. You are nothing if not ruthlessly logical, so you must know that a woman like Molly Hooper, who wears her heart on her sleeve, would be eternally – and quite needlessly - grateful to you for the initial inspiration. She'd probably name a dessert after you if her publisher was foolish enough to let her. So…what can it be? For once, I don't understand your motive…and that _fascinates_ me."

"My motive is _not_ your concern," Mycroft snapped, a little shaken by his brother's observation. Now he came to think about it, he wasn't entirely sure of his own motivations.

"No…?" Sherlock continued to frown at him as if he were the most fascinating object that the detective had ever laid his eyes on…

...And then, quite suddenly, his face creased into a grin. " _Oh_! So _that's_ it… _Well_ , how very _remarkable_. Can it _possibly_ be true – does Mycroft Holmes _really_ have a heart?" He dropped the fork and leaned over the desk, pushing his fingertips into its polished surface so hard that they turned white. "You should be _careful_ , brother mine. You're allowing _feelings_ to rule your head."

"Nothing of the sort!" Mycroft sat back, offended by the suggestion. "My friendship with Miss Hooper has nothing to do with it. I simply sought to save her the embarrassment of further rejection."

Sherlock shook his head, his expression mocking but with just a trace of pity in his eyes. "You really _don't_ understand, do you? _Poor Mycroft_ – I suppose I might even feel sorry for you. You're a fine one to lecture _me_ about human emotions. You know _perfectly well_ that if that book was published, it would be an instant hit – _she'd_ be an instant hit – and you can't bear the thought of losing your little… _friend_." He leaned back again. "Oh well, it's nothing to do with _me_. Enjoy your day. The card's from John and Mary."

He pulled a crumpled envelope from his jacket pocket, threw it onto the desk, jumped to his feet and strode out of the office, nodding at Mycroft's PA as he passed her in the open doorway.

Mycroft gazed morosely at the remains of the lemon cake. He was so preoccupied with his dark thoughts that he failed to notice the cold expression on Anthea's face as she stared down at him.


	4. "Then the world discovers..."

Molly stared morosely at nothing in particular as she dug a spoon into the sagging chocolate-y mess on her cake plate. Lifting it to her mouth, she sucked up every particle of the sticky mixture, licking her spoon clean.

"What was it supposed to be?" John looked at the mixture, fascinated.

"Oh, just something new," she replied, vaguely. "It's supposed to be a four layer chocolate gateaux with a truffle filling and silky chocolate icing. It didn't work out – I mean, it should've done, but I think the layers weren't level enough and then the truffle cream wasn't stiff enough… I'll work it out. I was thinking of dedicating it to Mycroft," she added, diffidently. "I know it sounds silly, but, well… after all he _was_ the inspiration for the book - or would've been, anyway."

Across the kitchen table, Mycroft's younger brother snorted indelicately, his nose buried in the newspaper.

" _Mycroft?_ " John sounded outraged. "What about _me_? _I_ was the one who suggested it. Why would you have wanted to dedicate it to _him_?"

"And he really _does_ have no idea why that's such a stupid question," Mary said amiably, as she put a fresh mug of tea in front of Molly, giving her a conspiratorial wink. Molly smiled back uncertainly, not entirely sure what Mary was getting at. On the floor, little Elena was playing with one of Molly's old ragdolls – she'd dug out a box of her childhood toys when the Watsons and Sherlock had come round to her flat for a cup of tea and a post-mortem on the ill-fated book.

"You're wasting your time, Mary," Sherlock piped up from across the room. " _She's_ as clueless as _he_ is."

"Who is?" John dug into the would-be gateaux with his own spoon. "That's…not bad at all. What were you going to call it?"

"Oh, I don't know. Chocolate… something. I'm no good at names."

"Chocolate Obsession," muttered Sherlock, his gaze still on the newspaper. "The perfect name, particularly if applied to Mycroft. He's obsessed with chocolate…among other things." He raised his eyes from the paper, giving Molly a meaningful look.

"That's not a bad name, actually," she said, slowly. " _If_ I ever get the consistency right…and _if_ they manage to retrieve my lost file."

She looked mournfully over at her empty desk. The computer had been taken away by one of Sherlock's mysterious 'helpers' – a self-declared expert at retrieving lost data, no matter how 'lost' it might be. She wasn't holding out much hope, however. It was quite clear that fate did not wish her to publish that book.

"Hah – _fate_ ," Sherlock muttered into his paper.

She stared at him – had she been speaking aloud? She didn't think she had… John looked equally confused for a moment before patting Molly on the arm. "Try not to worry. I'm sure Sherlock's bloke will find it."

* * *

He didn't find it.

Molly sat at the desk in front of her newly returned computer, staring at the screen in despair. She didn't have it in her to rewrite the entire work – in fact she lacked the energy to even _contemplate_ it.

Oh well. It had probably been a waste of her time anyway. It wasn't as if any publisher or agent had shown much interest apart from Tom, who had probably forgotten all about it by now…the cheating git.

And she had a job that she loved, morbid though it might be. Why would she want to give it up to write books? There was even the chance, she reasoned, as she walked into the kitchen to put together her latest attempt at Chocolate Obsession, that she might – _finally_ – get this recipe right.

She smiled as she investigated the gateaux. Yes, the consistency was _much_ better this time…

She was interrupted by the phone ringing.

"Miss Hooper?" The woman's voice sounded slightly familiar, but she couldn't place it at first. "You don't know me, but we have communicated from time to time. I work for Mr Mycroft Holmes…"

* * *

Sherlock barged into Mycroft's office in his usual impolite manner.

Mycroft gritted his teeth in annoyance – it was late and he was trying to sign off an important report for the head of MI6. "What _is_ it, brother? I don't have time to play games."

"Did you know she's dedicating a cake to you?"

He blinked, putting his pen down. "Mol – Miss Hooper? I didn't know that."

He hadn't seen Molly recently and had had no contact since receiving that cake on his birthday ten days ago, apart from sending a little handwritten note of thanks. It was slightly over two weeks since their last meeting, though, and she would start to get confused if he didn't arrange something soon. He wasn't sure what to do…he felt oddly uneasy at the prospect of a face-to-face meeting.

Sherlock smirked. "Chocolate Obsession. Quite apt - for _you_. The name was my idea." He strolled across the office, pretending to show an interest in the portrait of the Queen. "What a shame she won't be able to publish it now."

Mycroft picked up his pen, irritated. "If you're trying to make me feel guilty, Sherlock, forget it. It won't work."

"But _this_ might."

Both brothers jumped at the new voice and turned their heads towards the open door.

Molly Hooper stood in the doorway, her face white. In her hands, she was carrying a large cake box.

At the periphery of his vision, Mycroft was aware of Sherlock sliding gracefully into his visitor's chair, an air of smugness radiating from him. He felt frozen in place – unable to take his eyes off Molly as she walked towards him, slowly.

"I can understand -," she said quietly, "- why you might have chosen to sabotage my book. I mean, I think it's a _cruel_ and _cowardly_ thing to do, and it astonishes me that you didn't learn better from your mum and dad who, frankly, are quite lovely and really don't deserve a son like you…. But I _can_ sort-of see _why_ you did it… Because you _are_ a cowardly and cruel man, aren't you?"

Mycroft felt an oddly unpleasant sensation in his stomach at the words.

Molly shook her head as she looked at him. "I thought – I _thought_ you were the _nice_ brother and that _he_ was the bastard who enjoyed hurting people. But I was wrong."

Her eyes fell on Sherlock. Glancing briefly at his brother, Mycroft saw the smirk leave his face as he looked up at Molly intently, a gleam of pity in his eyes.

She laughed, mirthlessly, her eyes still on Sherlock. "But of course, I hadn't factored in one thing. Sherlock's naïve when it comes to emotions – he admits it himself. He had to have learned his cruelty from _someone_." Her eyes shifted back to Mycroft; with another unpleasant stab, he saw an unshed tear forming in the corner of one of them. "And at least _he's_ learned from his mistakes. John Watson has taught him to be a much better person than _you_ will _ever_ be."

She looked down at the box as if suddenly remembering that it was there. "I made this for you."

She opened the lid, moving towards Mycroft, and then, with an entirely unexpected motion, flung the whole thing violently in his direction.

Mycroft had no time to react. Slightly warm, moist chocolate cake, cream and icing spattered across his chest, covering his shirt and jacket and dripping down onto his trousers. He glanced at Sherlock, who was looking at Molly with a slightly wide-eyed expression – even _he_ had not expected this turn of events.

He looked back up at Molly, who had backed away from him a little. "Molly, I -."

She put up a hand, and now he could see that there were tears running down both cheeks. "Not interested, Mycroft. I _trusted_ you. I lov – I _liked_ you… And _this_ is how you repay my friendship."

She turned to leave the room, hesitating in the doorway. "Oh, and just so you know? I could probably have forgiven you for the book, given a bit of time. It was a stupid dream to have _anyway_ – it's not as if I would've got it published… But there's one thing I can _never_ forgive you for." She turned to look at Mycroft, her face crumpling as she sought to keep her composure. "How _dare_ you interfere in my relationship with Tom? How _dare_ you send him across the world, just to get him away from me? Where do you get off being so _arrogant_ – interfering in someone's private life? What's _that_ about – you're not in a relationship, so no one else is allowed to be?"

"I didn't have anything to do with _that_ ," he protested, but she interrupted him.

"I don't believe you – and you know what? I don't actually _care_."

And with that, Molly Hooper stormed out of his life.

A straight-faced Anthea stepped into the office and looked at Mycroft, impassively. "I'll fetch you a change of clothes, Sir."

He looked up at her. "Thank you."

Was it a figment of his imagination or did she falter slightly when her eyes met his? She seemed to pause, giving him a considering look, before she left the room. She looked a little…he would almost call it _guilty_. He supposed he _could_ take steps to find out exactly who had told Molly…but somehow, it didn't seem that important. No doubt she would have found out at some point. Probably better it was now rather than later on, when…

When _what_? Why had this ever seemed like a good idea to him? And what had he _really_ meant to get out of it?

For the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes genuinely had no idea what his next move was – or even what it might have been if Molly hadn't found out. And he _hated_ it.

He scooped up some of the delicious-smelling chocolate mixture on his finger and stared at it for a moment before looking over at Sherlock.

Rather to his surprise, his brother wasn't taking a golden opportunity to mock him. Instead, Sherlock was sitting straighter in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Why on earth would she think that I'd forced Thomas Clarke to cease his relationship with her to move in with another woman in Australia?" he mused aloud. "What kind of power does she think I _have_?"

" _Ah_ …" Sherlock looked back at him, still a little thoughtful. "Well…I may have been just a _little_ bit responsible for _that_."

* * *

"You know, you _can_ put this right. If you want to, that is."

Mycroft looked up at his PA through bleary eyes. It had been a horrifically long day, but even now, at 11.30PM, Anthea looked as fresh as she usually did at 7.30AM. He often wondered when she actually slept.

_He_ had slept appallingly for the last few nights, in fact since the day Molly Hooper had stormed out of his office. That was the only reason he could think of for the fact that he had struggled to get through today's fifteen-hour summit when normally, if required, he could work twice the length of time without sleep and with no ill effects. He'd also struggled more than normally to summon up his famously diplomatic manner – the Libyans had been really quite obdurate today…

He hadn't tried to get in touch in Molly. There didn't seem much point, frankly – he could tell that any texts or e-mails would be deleted unread, any letter ripped up, any phone call cut off as soon as he spoke. Molly was nothing if not a determined young lady – it was one of the many traits he admired in her, that stubborn set of her head, that flash of determination in her brown eyes that too many people had interpreted as soft…

He felt a sudden stab of pain in his chest so acute that he feared for a moment he might be having a cardiac arrest. To never see _that_ again – that expression in her eyes that made him glow with warm admiration, that made him smile and want to put his arms around her and pull her tight against him…

He shook his head, trying to clear the image from it. This was exhaustion, it must be - he wouldn't normally have such strange thoughts. And yet, he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep even if he tried. Perhaps he should call his doctor and request a sedative – the man was never keen to prescribe them, but he _needed_ to get some rest.

Molly would tell him off – she didn't approve of medicated sleep unless it was absolutely necessary. He could _hear_ her light voice telling him he worked far too hard, her face stern, but those eyes soft with concern for him - only him… _No_.

He tried to re-focus his wandering thoughts on Anthea – hadn't she just said something a moment ago?

His PA was biting her lip uneasily, but she was looking directly at him, not avoiding his gaze as he might expect a guilty person to. Nevertheless…a realisation struck him.

"It was _you_ who told her, wasn't it?"

She looked at him for a long moment before nodding, a little sheepishly. "Yes."

He rubbed his face, suddenly feeling _utterly_ shattered. Of all the people he might have suspected… "How long have you worked for me? Nine years?"

"And three months and twenty-two days," she added, sounding apologetic but with just a touch of defiance as well.

"In all those years, I don't think a day has gone by when I was not able to have absolute trust in you." He gave her a hard look, trying to hide the hurt he felt.

"Sir, with respect, you _can_ trust me," she said, quietly. "I'm sorry I went behind your back, but you were heading for a crisis. I had to make the only logical decision to avoid that scenario."

He narrowed his eyes at her. A man who was less clever and more emotional than Mycroft might have given her notice by now, but he knew Anthea too well. If she had betrayed his trust, there must be a very good reason for it. "Explain."

She walked slowly around the desk and sat in the visitor's chair, giving him a solemn look. "Sir, you are an extraordinary person to work for. When I was recruited into the service, I wanted to work for the best…and for the last nine years, that's exactly what I _have_ done. But I won't always be working for you. You _do_ understand that."

His eyes softened a little as he looked at her. He _did_ understand. 'Anthea', as she was currently known, was destined for high service. She'd learnt a lot from him – he could remember the day when she'd been assigned as a keen but inexperienced young assistant, fresh from university. However, she would be looking for the promotion she deserved, and probably sooner rather than later.

She glanced down at the polished desk surface before looking at him again. It seemed odd to see her without the ever-present smartphone in her hand.

"Mr Holmes, you have a – a truly _formidable_ understanding of the world – and of politics and business and science and literature and art and music…" She smiled, tentatively. "When I first came to work with you, I wondered whether there was anything that you did _not_ know… But I'm afraid you _do_ have a fairly major gap in your understanding: how to treat the people you care about. And I'm not thinking of your brother – not on _this_ occasion."

"Go on." He watched her calmly.

"Miss Hooper. I don't know her very well, but I know her friendship has been good for you. And I -," she faltered slightly before continuing with determination, "- I couldn't help noticing that at some stage, to _you_ , she stopped being a friend and became a – a _possession_. And yet, she _is_ a person – a person with independent desires and needs." She gave him an ironic smile. "Just as _I_ am."

He nodded, acknowledging the point. To most, she was just a shadowy, anonymous, background person going under a false name, and that was the way she liked it – it was what she was best at. However, he was one of very few people in this country to know her real name and background, and to know that she _was_ a normal person with her own history, and interests, and likes and dislikes.

"She has as much right to be treated with respect as anyone else. If she chooses to publish a book, you should respect and support her," she continued, firmly. "I could see that you wouldn't do that, and I didn't think you'd listen to _me_ , so all I could do was alert her to the problem. She reacted far more strongly than I thought she would…but then, I should have foreseen that. After all, she cares for you a great deal -."

"She _did_ ," he replied, bitterly. "Not any more. She probably hates me now."

She frowned at him, looking genuinely perplexed. " _No_. That's not true. She _does_ care about you. She _loves_ you – in fact, I suspect she is _in love_ with you. Didn't you realise that?"

He stared back. " _No_ …no, _that's_ not right. She doesn't feel that way about me – we're just friends, it's _Sherlock_ she loves…"

But even as he spoke, his mind was spinning. Images seemed to flash through his mind – her hand lingering on his arm, moments when she held his gaze longer than strictly necessary, the way she flushed when she caught him looking at her, the occasion at the opera when she seemed to shiver as he leaned towards her.

How could he have not noticed? Over the years, there _had_ been the occasional woman (and man) who'd had a crush on him – not many, but there had been some. He didn't flatter himself that he was particularly attractive; right from the start, Sherlock had been far better-looking, taking after their lithe beautiful mother while he inherited his father's rather plain face and tendency to put on weight. It was Sherlock who had attracted the admiration and advances from his teenage years onwards. However, people were often attracted to power and money, and Mycroft had plenty of both. He'd been adept at spotting the dangers and putting his admirers off. _Surely_ he'd have noticed if Molly Hooper had fallen for him?

But had he been looking for the right signs? He was so used to the idea of a Molly Hooper in unrequited love with his ungrateful younger brother, it had never occurred to him that that might no longer be the case. What would she see in _him_ , after all? She was no money-grabber.

And yet…what had he been playing at all this time? Even Sherlock had noticed the attention he'd been lavishing on her. He began to unwind the images and let them spool again from a different perspective. The theatre trips, the opera tickets, that helicopter trip to a property that he had no real desire to purchase but wanted to show her anyway… The number of times he found himself putting aside his work to consider at length which restaurant to take her to, what type of food she would like most… The way her face appeared in the front of his mind at the most inconvenient moments… The times when he found himself unable to take his eyes off her face; the habit he had of stretching his hand out to her or extending his arm – had he done it to be polite or because he had _wanted_ her to touch him?

In particular, a moment stood out – that evening in his flat when she'd leaned past him to put her dessert on the kitchen unit and he'd stepped back, acutely aware of the sweet smell of shampoo in her hair. And she'd turned and smiled at him, busy in his kitchen and flushed with the heat…and he'd felt the sharpest pang of agony at the sight. At the time, he'd put it down to embarrassment at their close proximity, but now he recognised it for what it was – an acute sense of longing for something he'd had no idea he was missing.

" _Aha_." Her frown faded as she looked at his face, seeming to read the fresh understanding there.

He laid his hands, palm up, on the desk. "What do I do?" he asked, simply.

Her eyes went to his desk drawer and she smiled.


	5. "As my book ends..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers: with the exception of a few minor characters, all belongs to ACD and the mighty Mofftiss. Recipes are taken from Mary Berry's website. And the song I quote in full later in the chapter is I Could Write a Book, music by Richard Rogers and lyrics by the incomparable Lorenz Hart. It's from the musical Pal Joey, which is all about a very manipulative man – wonder who that reminds me of… They don't make lyricists like Hart any more, sadly.
> 
> By the way, I know B all about publishing, which might become clear below!

Two weeks' later, Molly was updating her online records from scribbled notes when a grim-faced John Watson marched into the laboratory, hauling in a protesting Sherlock Holmes.

She put a file down and gave them an expectant look. She knew, from past experience, that this ought to be good. John only got _really_ riled when Sherlock had some serious explanations and apologies to make.

And sure enough… "This _git_ -," said John, dumping Sherlock in the chair opposite Molly's, "- has some explaining to do." He glared at his former flatmate. "And he's come here to do _just that_."

Sherlock gave him a sour look over his shoulder. "I don't know what all the fuss is about. Would you have preferred it if he'd stayed with her when it quite obviously wasn't going to last?"

"I would _prefer_ you not to interfere in people's private lives in the first place," John snapped. "But clearly that's too much to ask. It's not as if she asked you to get involved…"

"If she had, we'd have saved a lot of trouble," Sherlock protested.

Molly stood up, picked up one of her heavy files and threw it across the table. It landed with a loud smack in front of Sherlock, making both men jump.

"'She' is standing right in front of you and would prefer it if you spoke to her directly." She looked between the two of them. "What's it about?"

Sherlock glared at John before turning to face Molly.

"When I met Tom, it was _quite obvious_ to me that he was not right for you," he began. "I could tell by his watch and the state of his fingernails that he had left someone behind in Australia who was _perfect_ for him, presumably because of her severe lack of taste in men, but he was going to deny himself out of misplaced loyalty to _you_."

" _Misplaced_ …" muttered John. "How _charming_."

Sherlock gave him a furious look. "If you're going to make supercilious remarks -."

"Stop!" Molly raised a hand and Sherlock subsided, looking at her mutinously. "What _did_ you do, Sherlock? When did you meet Tom?"

"After his return from Australia, _obviously_ , as part of my investigations into the disappearance of your manuscript."

"What investigation? You mean…you mean you were looking for my book?" Molly asked, incredulously. Rather surprisingly, it had not occurred to her to ask Sherlock to help. After all, what could he do?

"It was clear to _me_ that someone was trying to stop you getting it published. I had my suspicions, but I needed to speak to Tom to confirm certain facts about the mugging." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "He was not much help. Terrible memory for appearance and accent. You could do far better, Molly."

She laughed, in spite of herself. "That's…it's actually really _nice_ of you to try to help, Sherlock. Goes to show that John is a good influence on you," she added, teasingly.

"Yes, well -,"he glared in the direction of a very smug-looking John. "- it was a quiet day, case-wise."

She sobered quickly. "So… _you_ found out that it was Mycroft before _I_ did, and didn't tell me?"

He looked at her carefully, as if trying to judge her reaction. "Yes, that's true. I admit that, from my point of view, it didn't seem like a good idea for you to go off and be a best-selling author. I mean, I need you _here_."

"Did you think I was going to leave if the book was published?"

" _Wouldn't_ you?" both men said together.

" _No_!" She shook her head. "Look, I know I complain about it, but it's my _job_! My profession! Do you _honestly_ think that I'd drop everything for a cookery book after all the years it took me to qualify?"

" _Oh_ …" There was a note of wonder in Sherlock's voice.

"Although," she added, quickly. "I'd advise you to think very carefully about what you're saying. Because allowing my book to be sabotaged just so I wouldn't be a handy pathologist for you isn't _that_ much better than your brother _actually_ sabotaging it so I wouldn't stop keeping him in cakes."

"Do you really believe that's why he did it?" Sherlock leaned back in his chair, looking at her with interest.

"Yes, of course. Why else?"

"Why else indeed," Sherlock said, quietly.

" _Anyway_ -," John broke in, "- we're getting off-topic now. What Sherlock is _supposed_ to be telling you is that it's _his_ fault that Tom left. Mycroft had nothing to do with it," he added, pointedly.

"How is it Sherlock's fault?" she asked, confused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, I told him that he was wasting your time. I could see his mind was on someone else, and I told him he shouldn't be stringing you along when he wouldn't be able to give the other woman up, no matter how guilty he felt. I told him that he needed to choose between you and that he needed to let the other woman know as quickly as possible. Oh…and I _may_ have just told him that, in my opinion, he'd be a fool if he didn't choose the Australian woman, since he obviously preferred her to you. I had questioned him at length to make sure of that."

"I…see…" she said, slowly. A wondrous vision of Tom's face while Sherlock was 'interrogating' him made her lips twitch.

"So, you see, Mycroft really had nothing to do with that," John added. "You can blame it all on Big Mouth here."

"Well, I don't know," she mused. "Seems like he might have done me a favour by getting rid of _another_ waste of space. I certainly know how to pick them."

Sherlock's grin at John was nothing short of triumphant.

"But he's really sorry, anyway," John continued. "Or he _will_ be once Mary finds out." He was joking, but she could see the concern in his eyes.

She sighed and sank into her chair. "I'm alright, honestly. It was a bit of a shock, I admit. I thought I knew your brother," she added to Sherlock.

He snorted. "No one knows Mycroft. Even _Mycroft_ doesn't know Mycroft. Anyway – forget _that_. The important thing is that we now know who has the missing copies of your book."

"How do you know that Mycroft hasn't just destroyed the copies?" John asked.

Sherlock glanced at Molly, meaningfully. "I strongly doubt he'd be able to bring himself to. So…what do you think?" He gave Molly an inquiring look. "I'm happy to break in if you'd like the USBs back."

She couldn't help smiling; he looked as eager as a schoolboy at the prospect of some good old-fashioned breaking-and-entering. "I don't want you to get into trouble over this."

His face told her exactly what he thought of the likelihood of _that_. However, after hesitating and thinking about for a moment, she shook her head, sighing.

"Look, I just want to forget it – really I do." She shook her head as John opened his mouth to reply. "The point is, I spent six months of my life trying to sell the idea to agents and publishers, without getting anywhere, and I'm sick and tired of it. I just want to get on with my life and forget about the whole thing. It was only ever a silly daydream in the first place."

* * *

Molly let herself into the flat with a heartfelt sigh. It hadn't been a particularly busy or stressful day, but she felt bone-tired anyway.

She put her mail down on the coffee table before greeting her cat, Toby. After she had put his food down and made a cup of tea, she sat on her comfortable old sofa and rested her head on the back rest, propping her feet on the pile of mail.

She had meant what she said to Sherlock and John. The dream was over; even if Sherlock managed to retrieve her book, the whole thing felt tainted now. She didn't think she'd be able to summon the energy to go out and try to sell it again, even if Mycroft voluntarily returned it to her.

The worst of it was that she'd always think of _him_ in relation to the recipes. She hadn't been aware of it at the time but, looking back, she realised that he'd always been at the back of her mind. Even as she'd created new ideas and tested new taste combinations, she'd always been wondering whether _he_ would like them or not. It had been Mycroft's favourites that had formed the spine of her book and she'd even written a dedication to him that she had planned on putting at the beginning of it:

"To MH, with ever-lasting affection and gratitude"

That would've have reasonably safe – it would have been innocuous enough for him to treat it as a declaration of friendship if he wanted to, but she would still have been hinting at what she really wanted him to understand.

Well, it was all over. She missed him acutely, even after only a couple of days, but the man had shown his true colours. Admittedly, Sherlock's confession showed that his brother hadn't been quite as bad as she had assumed, but he'd still tried to control her life and had deceived her. _That_ was what hurt most of all. All this time, she'd assumed that Mycroft didn't care about the fact that she wasn't as clever as him, but as it turned out, he'd been manipulating her. He must have thought she was so stupid…

She gulped down half of her cooled tea and lifted her feet up wearily to retrieve the mail. It was mostly advertising flyers, with a couple of subscribed medical journals mixed in. There was only one letter, which looked official and business-like.

She opened it and raised her eyebrows in surprise when she saw who the sender was.

* * *

Molly adjusted her pearl necklace nervously. "Are you sure I look OK?"

"You look _stunning_." Mary Watson smiled at her in the mirror. They were in the ladies' powder room at an old-fashioned hotel. John and Sherlock were waiting for them right outside and, in one of the hotel's function rooms, a small crowd had gathered to see her – _her_! – and to congratulate her on the recent publication of her book.

The last three months had been an absolute whirlwind. Contracts had been signed, advances talked about, there had been endless meetings about layouts and designs and photographs…all aimed at launching in time for the Christmas market. It was lucky that Mike Stamford was such a lenient boss and had allowed her to go part-time with only a weeks' notice. What she'd said to Sherlock and John had been right – she really _didn't_ want to leave her profession – but she was fast learning that it was hard work being an author who was about to get published.

Molly played with the straps of her burgundy dress, hoping it didn't look either too dressy or too dowdy for the occasion. Mary had assured her that she looked perfect in it, but Molly felt underdressed next to her companion – it was illogical as they had both been dressed by the same designer, recommended by her new agent, but Mary was looking particularly beautiful and glamourous tonight, in midnight blue. Or was she just glowing from the early stages of the pregnancy that she and John had announced to their friends a couple of days' ago?

Molly gave her pale face a last resigned look and turned to leave. John seemed to understand how she was feeling; as they came out of the ladies' room, he smiled and kissed her cheek, whispering "you look beautiful" in her ear.

Sherlock, resplendent in a formal suit, looked her up and down once and nodded, as if satisfied with what he saw. He gave her a semi-formal bow and offered his arm. In his spare hand, he was holding his violin case.

Molly hadn't been entirely sure what this launch party would involve, but she felt very strongly that as it was _her_ party, in _her_ honour, she would therefore give it her own flavour. So the guests included friends from work and the usual Baker Street 'crowd' – Mrs Hudson, Greg Lestrade and the like. And Sherlock would play at some point in the evening – she had asked him to. He had even composed a piece in her honour.

She closed her eyes just before they entered the function room, fearing the worse, but it was actually not too bad. Once she'd got through the embarrassment of being applauded, she was able to enjoy talking to her friends for a while, which helped to give her the confidence she needed when her agent began to introduce her to various individuals from "the industry". They were all very complimentary about 'Molly's Kitchen', freshly printed copies of which were displayed about the room.

She didn't need to look at her book any more. By now she had memorised it – the tasteful carefully posed pictures of the cakes and the photograph of herself inside the front cover, attempting to look relaxed but professional at the same time (they had emphasised the 'Doctor' element, without actually revealing that she worked with dead bodies, and had focused on her scientific approaches to producing the perfect cake). The foreword and the acknowledgements, which included her heartfelt thanks to John, Mary and Sherlock for their support.

And the dedication. Well, it had _almost_ read as planned:

"For MH"

Let everyone make of that what they would. Apart from the Watsons and Sherlock, they'd think it related to some unnamed Hooper – if pressed, she could legitimately say that her deceased father's Christian name had been Martin.

If _he_ read the book, would he know?

The champagne was flowing and the atmosphere gradually getting more relaxed, when her agent banged a glass to get everyone's attention and silence.

Her new publishing editor spoke first, giving some spiel about how the publisher had never published such an impressive first book in the genre. He was a fatherly man in his fifties, and if he'd been recruited specifically to soothe nervous first-time authors, they couldn't have made a better decision. He was followed by Molly's agent, Paula Davis. She was a confident and experienced speaker with a good sense of humour. Molly allowed the words to flow over her; to some extent, she had known in advance what Paula was planning to say in her introductory speech.

And then it was Molly's turn. Blushing furiously, she stammered out a few words of thanks, not entirely aware of what she was saying. Whatever it was, it clearly went down well judging by the enthusiastic applause - although it was getting to _that_ stage of the evening, where everyone generally approved of every speech just so long as their glasses kept being refilled.

As the applause died away and people began to talk among themselves again, Molly became aware of a woman standing off to the side, tentatively attempting to catch her attention. As she turned towards the woman, her smile of welcome froze.

It was Anthea, looking utterly perfect in a long black dress. She was looking at Molly appraisingly which in itself was odd. It was the first time Molly could recall Mycroft's mysterious PA actually looking at her. On the few occasions when they _had_ met in the past, all she'd ever seen was the top of the woman's glossy head. And apart from that painful phone call, Anthea had hardly ever spoken a word.

She seemed to be waiting for permission to approach, so Molly nodded a little jerkily. Immediately, Anthea glided over in an impossibly graceful manner, making Molly feel uncouth and awkward by comparison.

"He's here, but he won't come in unless you say so," she murmured in a low voice. "He'd like to speak to you, in private if that would be easier for you."

"I'm not so sure that it would," she muttered, glancing around. Most of the people in the room had been distracted by the fact that Sherlock had taken out his violin at last, and was playing some kind of lively gypsy-like piece that she didn't recognise. John alone was looking her direction, a little worriedly, and seemed about to intervene.

She shook her head at him mutely and followed Anthea out of the room.

Mycroft was waiting in a small meeting room. As she entered it, his back was to the door and he was looking out of the window. At the sound of the door, he spun around, and she felt an acute internal tug towards him, like a magnet, before she remembered that she wasn't supposed to like him any more.

He was looking tall and elegant in a tailored suit; not as strikingly handsome as his brother, but still heart-breakingly attractive. His face was pale, though, and his eyes dark with an exhaustion that spoke of interrupted nights. He looked as insecure as she had ever seen him, and her heart went out to him, despite everything. Not that she could show _him_ that.

He smiled as she came in. "Thank you for agreeing to see me."

She became aware that Anthea had silently disappeared from the room. "I'm not quite sure why I did agree, to be honest. Why _are_ you here, Mycroft?"

He paused, as if considering his words carefully. "I wanted to congratulate you – _no_." He swallowed and started again. "I mean, of course I congratulate you, but that's not _really_ why I'm here. I wanted you to know that…"

He stopped again and shook his head, looking annoyed at himself. She crossed her arms and tilted her head inquiringly, her own annoyance growing. She'd never known Mycroft Holmes to be lost for words.

"If you can't bring yourself to tell me why you're here, I don't know why you bothered. _Well_?" she challenged him. "Is it really so difficult to say?"

He looked at her and she could see the exasperation in his eyes. " _Yes_ , it _is_ , in some ways. It's not as if I've ever said it before."

That figured. He'd probably never apologised in his entire life. "Well, I don't see _why_ ," she exclaimed, indignantly. "I've got a whole room-load of people waiting for me, Mycroft, and if that's your attitude then I'm going back -."

She turned away and he grabbed her arm.

"Wait!" His voice sounded desperate. "Just wait a minute…"

"I don't _have_ a minute." She twisted her arm out of his hand and strode towards the door.

" _I love you_!"

She stopped, frozen.

"I love you," he repeated, wonderingly. "Actually, it's not _so_ hard to say, now I come to think of it…"

" _What_?" she spun to face him. "Is _that_ what you were going to say?"

"Well – _yes_." He seemed genuinely perplexed. "What else did you think I came here for?"

"I _thought_ you'd come to say sorry!"

"But, I've already told you that."

"No, you haven't!"

" _Yes_ , I _have_ – _ah_ …" He seemed to think about it, before adding, sheepishly, "Well, I thought it would be _obvious_ that I was sorry. I mean, I assumed you already knew that, but I didn't think you knew that I love you and so that's what I'm here for – to say, I mean. That I do. Love you, that is."

His voice died away and he stood in the middle of the room, looking as confused as she had ever seen him.

She stared at him, not certain for a moment whether to laugh, to cry, or to just have done with it and kiss him senseless.

In the end, she didn't do any of those things.

"So…you love me?" she asked, tentatively.

"Yes. Yes, I _do_. Very much," he replied, sounding just as bewildered by the strange truth as she was. "I didn't realise it until…well. Until it was too late, I suppose."

She stepped towards him. "Who says it's too late?" she asked, quietly.

He gave her a wary look. "Look, I didn't come here to try to convince you of anything. I've – I think I've done enough of that, don't you?" He smiled, faintly. "All my life, I've tried to manipulate the people around me; I've tried to work matters to my own advantage, and I did the same with _you_ , Molly. And I _am_ sorry, I truly am, and I wanted you to know how I felt about you… But I don't expect _anything_ from you. I just… well, I just thought you should know."

She believed him… to a degree. There was no doubt that he deeply regretted what he had done and he clearly expected to be shown the door…but there was also just the slightest glimmer of hope in his grey eyes. She could see that he already knew she loved him too and that the mighty Mycroft brain had sifted through the evidence and had at least some optimism that she would forgive him.

It wasn't quite enough though… "Why _did_ you do it?" she asked. "And be honest, Mycroft – you owe me that."

He sighed. "Yes, of course. I started to treat you as – as a _possession_ , as my PA described it. I've had so few _real_ friends in my life – I mean, people who like me for _me,_ rather than for being the rich and powerful Mycroft Holmes. And I was afraid of losing that…except I was lying to myself about _that_ too. I _thought_ I didn't want you to stop sending me cakes and giving me special treatment, but what I was _really_ afraid of was that I would lose _you_. Because you'd become too important for me to lose without considerable pain…and I didn't know how to deal with that."

"You should have known me better than that."

"Yes. I should," he admitted. "It's not an excuse but…well." He laughed, drily. "You should try growing up with _my_ family."

He dropped his head, avoiding her gaze, but she saw what he didn't want to reveal. The older, less interesting son, constantly being compared to his brilliant, mercurial, attractive younger brother. Dull, conscientious Mycroft, teased mercilessly by Sherlock, probably also teased and even bullied by his contemporaries for the unconscionable sin of being too clever. His heart growing as hard as stone as a result, always looking to find 'the advantage', always believing that to care was to be weak. And, in turn, he'd taught his younger brother the same horrible lesson.

She considered him. He was emotionally damaged, even more so than Sherlock, and she was an _utter fool_ to be even contemplating this…

But she'd be a fool who was loved. And loved by the man she was already deeply in love with.

She put a hand out and touched his cheek, gently. He lifted his head and she saw the uncertainty in his eyes; an uncertainty that he would never show to anyone else.

"I love you too," she told him, seriously. "But you already know that. Just as you already knew that I'd give you another chance… And _that_ ," she added, "is the _real_ reason why you came here tonight."

He smiled, a little shakily. "It was always a possibility."

On an impulse, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. He hesitated briefly before responding, his hands running lightly down her sides before going around her waist and pulling her very carefully towards him. His mouth moved over hers in a tentative manner, and it occurred to her suddenly that he was probably not that experienced. But then, she reflected breathlessly, as his arms tightened around her and he kissed her more confidently, he _was_ a Holmes brother and therefore a very quick study…

* * *

Molly re-entered the function room, with Mycroft just behind her.

Most of her guests looked either completely blank or only vaguely interested, depending on whether or not they knew who Mycroft was. John alone looked worried and took a couple of steps towards them before Mary grabbed his arm.

Sherlock was surrounded by a small group of admirers, playing something light and romantic that she thought she recognised as a Strauss waltz, his lithe body swaying in time with the music. A few couples were dancing, half drunkenly, around the polished floor, but most were listening intently. He looked in their direction, not seeming all that surprised to see his brother.

Mycroft put his hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps we should dance," he murmured in her ear, making her shiver.

She laughed quietly and turned towards him, putting her hand on his shoulder and taking his hand. "I suppose it would be one way of making an announcement."

Sherlock seemed to intensify his playing as Mycroft spun her inexpertly into the waltz. She stumbled over his foot, awkwardly. "Um, Mycroft. Can you actually dance?"

"No," he replied through gritted teeth. "Rubbish at it, even with lessons. You?"

"Not really."

His arms tightened and his feet slowed down, so they were not so much dancing as swaying together. "My advice? Keep going and hold on tight. Only…you might not want to be that close to me when you hear the second part of my confession…"

His voice sounded as calm as ever, but she could detect the tension in it. "Do you mean the fact that you bribed Paula Davis to publish my book?"

His arms stiffened, but he kept his cheek pressed against her head, so she couldn't check his expression. "You _knew_ about that?"

Firmly, she pushed him away from her, just enough to smile up at him. "Of _course_. It was obvious. She hadn't shown the remotest interest before, and I don't imagine Tom bothered to try to convince her that I was worth her attention. _Something_ changed her mind quite suddenly – or _someone_."

He acknowledged this with a graceful bow of his head as they paused in the dance, swaying. " _Very_ good deduction, Miss Hooper."

She grinned at him. "You forget that I have _Sherlock_ on my side."

"Your secret weapon," he agreed, his own smile tight with anxiety.

She had a sense that their future was on a knife-edge; he wouldn't push for any kind of public declaration, not now… And she? If she wanted to, she could step back, laugh, turn the whole thing into a joke…and they would be back where they were a few months' ago, despite the kiss they had just shared. He wouldn't try anything again – underneath it all, Mycroft was as insecure as any man would be who had been over-shadowed by a charismatic, more attractive younger brother for as long as he could remember.

Talking of whom…her eyes went to Sherlock. He was still playing that gentle waltz, but his fingers moved with a little less fluency as he watched her carefully. Her gaze took in John and Mary, turning gently to the strains of the music, a little amused, a little embarrassed, but absorbed in each other nonetheless. Anthea was watching her intently but with a little smile on her face, while ignoring a cheeky young pathologist's attempts to chat her up. Greg Lestrade was looking intrigued and Mrs Hudson bright-cheeked with excitement. And then Molly looked at Ms Davis, who was clutching her champagne glass with the slightly smug expression of a book agent who knew she'd got a good deal.

"You don't mind?" In theory, he was talking about the deal with Paula Davis but she knew he meant more than that. It was couched as a question, but in a sense Mycroft probably already knew the answer. He just didn't quite believe in _them_. Not quite yet, not while the relationship was only acknowledged privately. Well, there was only one way she knew to change _that_.

She smiled up at him. "I don't think it matters, do you? If it was a bad book that wouldn't sell, I'd be embarrassed that you felt you had to pay for it. But it _will_ be a success. You've only got to look at her face to see that. And anyway, they're _my_ recipes and we already know how good they are. As for _you_ -," she poked at his chest, but gently. "- you are the sneakiest, most manipulative man on the planet. But I happen to be in love with you, more fool _me_ …so I guess I'm going to have to put up with you."

And she reached up on tip-toe and pressed a brief, firm kiss to his surprised mouth before she could think better of it. She lingered long enough to make it clear that this was not just a friendly platonic gesture.

Mrs Hudson gave a little squeak and John and Mary were laughing as she looked over at them again. Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically at them both, but segued effortlessly from the little waltz into gentle jazzy number – one that sounded familiar although she couldn't quite place it.

Mycroft stood still, frozen for a moment, before laughing. " _Well_. How _appropriate_ , little brother." The uncertainty had left his eyes to be replaced by an emotion that Molly had never before seen in his eyes. Later she would come to recognise it as contentment.

He smiled at her very softly. "Doctor Hooper, would you care to dance with me?"

"I would, Mr Holmes."

And so he pulled her close again, hiding his face against her hair once more. Understanding this to be Mycroft's way of dealing with his private emotions in a public place, she leaned her cheek against his chest, listening to his steady heart (beating just a little faster at the moment). She tightened her arms around his waist and closed her eyes to block out the world for a brief wonderful moment and concentrate on the melody of the song that Sherlock was playing.

As he started the main strain again, Mycroft began to sing, very quietly, for her ears alone. She had never heard him sing before, but his voice was pleasant and melodic…and it occurred to her that Sherlock was not the only musician in the family.

"If they asked me I could write a book  
About the way you walk and whisper and look  
I could write a preface on how we met  
So the world would never forget  
And the simple secret of the plot  
Is just to tell them that I love you a lot  
Then the world discovers as my book ends  
How to make two lovers of friends."

* * *

So, there's a reason why Mycroft has to use his exercise equipment more often these days.

For a start, Molly will start nagging him if he puts on any more weight. John tells him that that tends to happen with wives after a bit. The nagging, that is. The weight gain was always going to be an issue.

But, he reflects as he wanders into his kitchen in his gym clothes and cuts himself a slice of rich fruit wedding cake with white royal icing…it's definitely worth it. Even if she _will_ tell him off for tucking into the top tier, as apparently it's traditional to keep it for the first christening. Mother will tell him off too, but not too harshly. Right now, he's _very much_ her favourite son, much to Sherlock's secret disgust.

After all, Molly can always make another cake… Maybe she'll even let him help her this time.

And there's a reason why Mrs Molly Holmes (but still Dr Molly Hooper at work, thank you very much, although she's taking a break right now) walks the streets without fear these days.

As she strides down the street on the way to her agent to discuss a book signing, the CCTV cameras on the tall city buildings turn to follow her, but she pays them no more heed than she does the stares of sudden recognition from strangers. As she passes a bookshop, she can see her face, smiling from the poster in the window. Volume 2 of Molly's Kitchen is out and it's currently at number 1 in the non-fiction charts.

She's used to the surveillance by now; most of the time she forgets it's there. And she fears no sudden attack from one of Moriarty's nameless killers, hasn't done for ages actually, but even _less_ so now. The security status of herself and their unborn child is second only to that of another pregnant woman: the Duchess of Cambridge. She knows for a fact that there are at least three people in this street masquerading as ordinary businessmen as they shadow her. Mycroft isn't taking any chances.

She gently touches the small but visible bump in her tummy and gives the nearest security camera a little smile and a wink as she passes it by.

**The End**


End file.
